


In Between

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-05
Updated: 2006-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Metafic in some kind of cyberspace. Just—weird. (08/14/2002)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: I was doing my exercises at 11:30 PM, fully intending to go to sleep right afterwards. When this damn stupid rabbit bit my ass. I have no idea what the hell this is, but I know it was inspired by the story "Underused Ensign Syndrome" from fanfiction.net. I can't remember who wrote it. This is un-beta'ed and totally bizarre. But I promise no one dies. Or gets hurt.  
  
And Chuck is backâ€”but he's all better! See? Oh, and none of the French has the proper accents because I was too tired to figure out how to make my computer do them quickly, and I apologize to any French-speakers out there if I got any of it wrong (I didn't want to wake up Dominique to ask him). I've translated everything in French into English as exactly as possible.  


* * *

They were standing in a complete and utter expanse of white: no color, no shape, nothing to break the absolute stillness. Trip looked around him, gaping. It was difficult to keep his balance when there was no external reference for distance or even 'up' and 'down.' It was like being snow blind. Or maybe it was like being dead.

"Where the hell is that voice coming from?" Malcolm asked, brow furrowing in puzzlement as he looked around, "and why is it describing everything that I'm doing?" He blinked, looked at Trip. "Trip," he said, "I know I'm speaking, for Christ's sake!" He shouted. "Ahhgh." He groaned. "Trip," he tried again, sighing in exasperation at the ceaseless narration of his actions, assured by now that no amount of anger on his part was going to get rid of it, "does my voice sound...funny to you?"

"Nope," Trip said, "but why are we only wearin' towels?"

They were only wearing towels; something that Malcolm had failed to notice because, unlike his actions, it hadn't been previously described. "Good lord," he said, looking down at his waist, "I've got nothing but a-" he checked the label attached to the edge of the fluffy white cloth, careful not to dislodge it, "-a white 'Sears Colourburst' towel on!" He squinted slightly as he read the label's fine print. "Made in Canada." He looked up at Trip. "Canada?"

"I don't think we're in Canada," Trip said. His towel was dark blue, which might have set off his eyes nicely if it had been any closer to them. As it was, Malcolm could only notice the effect by shifting his eyes back and forth quickly from the commander's face to his groin. Something that he might have enjoyed if it wasn't making him dizzy.

"Ow," Malcolm complained, putting his fingers to his temples and closing his eyes, "now I've got a headache. Why the hell was I shifting my eyes back and forth?"

"To see how nicely the towel sets off my eyes," Trip said. He pointed upwards, as if the ubiquitous narration was right above them. "See?"

"Bloody hell," Malcolm muttered. "My voice really doesn't sound right."

"That's 'cause she has a hard time imagining you speaking with an English accent," The little boy said.

"What little boy?" Trip asked, blinking. Then he turned around and saw the child standing right behind him, as if the boy had been there in the nothingness with them all along.

"Hi," the boy said. "I'm Chuck."

"H'lo, Chuck," Trip said dubiously. Chuck looked like he was about four years old, though his voice and demeanor could have belonged to an adult. He was wearing a pair of really cute 'Gap Kids' jeans, the kind that most people would only dream of buying their children because the clothes are so damn expensive and they'd grow out of it too fast to make it worth the purchase. He was also wearing a sparkling-white t-shirt and a big yellow rain-slicker because that happened to be how he was being imagined at the moment. He was also wearing black rubber boots with yellow trim, as if he was expecting a downpour. His hair was bright blond, and he had big, beautiful blue eyes. Trip crouched down with difficulty—he didn't want to move the towel—until he was almost even with the boy's eyes. "D'you know what we're doin' here?"

"Uh-huh," the boy said proudly. He made a fist with his thumb out and jerked it backwards until it almost touched his t-shirt. "I can tell you anything you want. I'm the avatar."

"Could you perhaps tell us where we are, then?" Malcolm asked, looking down at the child. He was pleased that his voice sounded a bit more English, though it still didn't exactly sound like his. "I know where I'm looking," he growled.

"You're in the Space Between Stories," Chuck said, making the words sound so Important you could Practically See the Capital Letters on Them. "She's keeping you here while she writes stories about you."

Trip looked at Malcolm, who was equally confused.

"No I'm not," said Malcolm, but he obviously was.

Trip looked back at the boy. "Who is 'She'?"

"She's the Writer," Chuck said, making that word sound even More Important than the Other Ones. "She makes stuff up about you an' types it into the computer an' posts it and makes lots of people very happy. I'm her Avatar," he repeated, as if this meant something. Now the word sounded capitalized too, which it hadn't before.

"What's an Avatar?" Trip asked. He knew that normally he would know this, but for the purposes of the story it had to be explained, and it seemed more reasonable for him to be asking the question than Malcolm. "Hey!" He said angrily, looking around as if he could find the narrator, but there was no one there but himself, Chuck and Malcolm.

"It comes from the Hindu," the little boy said. "According to her Pocket Oxford Dictionary of Current English, Seventh Edition, it means: "descent of god to earth in bodily form. Not that she thinks she's a god or anything," he amended quickly, "it's just that she can't talk to you herself 'cause you don't really exist."

Malcolm had been wondering at such educated speech coming in the high-pitched tones of a four-year-old, but the last line derailed that train of thought entirely. "What?" He said, almost shouting the question, "What did you say?"

"He said we don't exist, Malc." Trip said. When Malcolm looked at him he shrugged. "I'm always a bit closer to that ol' abyss than you are—guess it's not as hard a concept for me."

Malcolm looked from Trip to the boy. "What the bloody hell are you two talking about?"

"You're accent really is soundin' funny," Trip said.

"That's 'cause the Writer is Canadian," the boy explained solemnly. "She lives in Texas now, but when she hears her characters, everyone pretty much talks with Canadian accents in her head." He pointed at Malcolm. "That's why you sound funny: you're using all those Brit phrases with a Canadian accent." He turned to Trip. "You're accent is even weirder, 'cause you sound mostly Canadian, with a bit of Texas stuff thrown in occasionally 'cause that's how she figures all Southerners talk." He shrugged, grinning. "I sound normal 'cause I'm a Canadian too."

Malcolm rubbed his eye with the palm of his hand. "Could someone please tell me what's going on?"

"Oh, sure," Chuck said. "Sorry."

Suddenly they were standing in a beautiful field, full of tall, waving grass and wildflowers. The sun was shining brilliant and gold out of a miraculously blue sky. Standing behind Chuck was a different boy now. This boy was older, looking about eight. He had dark brown hair and was wearing a black turtleneck over black jeans. He was leaning against an elaborate set of dome-shaped monkey bars, sloe eyes heavily lidded. He was smoking. "That's Chaz," Chuck said, gesturing at the boy behind him. The boy inclined his head in a kind of greeting but said nothing. "He represents the Slash writing; I'm for the Gen."

Trip looked from one boy to another. "Why are you shorter?" He asked.

Chuck shrugged, making his raincoat squeak as he moved. Trip was wondering why he wasn't getting hot in the sunlight. He could already feel a light trickle of sweat down his finely muscled back, soaking drop by drop into the towel. He realized a moment later that it was just for the benefit of the people who would be reading this.

"'Cause she's written more slash," Chuck said, "and she likes the slash better." He sighed, looking down as he kicked at the ground with his cute rubber boots. "She thinks her slash is more sophisticated."

"C'est absolument vrai," Chaz spoke behind him. He took a long drag on the cigarette. "Je suis beaucoup plus sophistique." He looked behind him, at the monkey bars towering invitingly. He took another drag on his cigarette. Which was a 'Gauloise', by the way, because he was French. "Je pourrai jouer sur les barreaux-de-singes, mais c'est tout si sans point..."

"He says 'it's absolutely true, I am much more sophisticated." Chuck translated helpfully, "he also said that he could play on the monkey bars, but it's all so pointless."

Malcolm stared at Chaz, who regarded him calmly and took another drag on his seemingly never-ending cigarette. "Why is he speaking French?"

Chuck Shrugged. "It's more sophisticated."

Behind him, Chaz took the cigarette out of his mouth long enough to say, "oui."

"Where are we?" Malcolm all but wailed. Normally he knew he would have kept his cool much longer, but the writer was eager to get on with things.

"Like I said," Chuck said, "you're In Between." He pointed off in the distance, where a small group of really cute and fluffy white rabbits had suddenly appeared to hop around and nibble cutely at the grass. "See? Those are plot bunnies. She's waiting for one of 'em to bite her so she can think of a new story to write."

Malcolm looked at the bunnies. They actually seemed to have very large, nasty-looking sharp teeth. "She writes stories."

"Uh-huh," Chuck nodded. "And you're here 'cause you don't exist. Not until she has a story to write about you."

Malcolm shook his head, bewildered. He held out his hands, looking at his arms, the play of veins under the pale skin. "I feel like I exist," he insisted, "I'm existing right now!"

"C'est par-ce-que tu es con," Chaz said contemptuously. He sucked on his cigarette.

"Chaz just said it's 'cause you're stupid," Chuck supplied. "Only he used a really, really bad word."

Malcolm glared at Chaz with a look that had reduced ensigns to quivering bundles of terror. Chaz just stared back coolly. He slowly exhaled a gust of smoke out of his mouth.

Chuck took a deep breath. "Actually," he explained, "you're only existing now 'cause she's writing about you. As soon as she's done—poof!"—He snapped his little fingers—"you disappear. You're figments," he said. "You only exist when you're being written about. Otherwise you're nowhere at all."

"The Space Between," Trip nodded. He looked at the pastoral beauty surrounding them; the lovely weeping willows off in the distance, strong and healthy though there wasn't a pond or a lake anywhere nearby. "But she pulled us outta there—ain't this a story?"

"Not really," Chuck said. "This is something she just thought up while she was exercising and now wants to get down really fast so she can go to bed. Oh," he said, "I should show you something." He used one of his cute, chubby little hands to lift up his bangs.

Trip's eyes went wide. "What the hell is that?" He didn't even sound remotely Southern when he said that; in fact he sounded exactly like the Writer's fiance, who is French-Canadian and sounds so cute when he uses English words like 'hell'.

"It's my lobotomy scar," Chuck said. "...And I've been castrated." At Trip and Malcolm's look of horror he quickly added, "don't worry! I'm as good as new! She fixed me right up 'cause it upset a lot of her friends to read about doing that kinda' stuff to a little boy. Even if it was a metaphor for the changes she had to make turning a slashfic story into gen."

"Elle m'a laisse sauf et sain," Chaz said smugly, drawing on his cigarette. "Elle m'aime beaucoup plus que toi."

Chuck sighed. "Chaz said that the Writer left him safe and sound, 'cause she loves him more. She does you know," he added, "-prefer slash to gen fanfic, I mean." He turned and cast a triumphant glare at Chaz. "But I'm her actual Avatar for this story and you're not!" He stuck his tongue out, which didn't seem to impress Chaz at all.

"So," Malcolm said slowly, turning these bizarre revelations over in his mind, "when we're not in a story, do we...die?"

"Well," Chuck drawled, scratching vigorously at his head, which just looked so darn cute, "You guys have already been in a few deathfics..." At Trip and Malcolm's look he said, "I mean, not hers. She hasn't written a deathfic yet. At least not about you guys." He grinned, "she only kills off her original characters." He pointed again to the bunnies. They all seemed to be wandering around in a kind of drugged stupor. "When one of them bites her, she'll write a story and you'll be alive again. But for now you're just In Between. You're not alive or dead—you're just kinda'...nothing."

"Nothing," Trip repeated, a little morosely. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, eh?"

"Ooh," Chuck exclaimed, "that was a completely Canadian 'eh' you used! She must be getting tired."

"Vous n'avez rien a voir avec des cindres," Chaz put in, "c'est que vous n'existez qu'elle vous imagine. Ce n'est pas si terrible—c'est plus que vous etes immortal."

"He's sayin' we don't have anything to do with ashes," Trip spoke to Malcolm, suddenly able to understand French perfectly because the Writer was tired of using Chuck all the time, "it's just that we don't exist until she imagines us. It's not so bad—it's more like we're immortal."

"Immortal," Malcolm mused, "I like the sound of that."

"And it's not just her, either," Chuck put in, "there's lots an' lots of writers of this fandom. You guys are popping out of In Between spaces and being put in stories all over the world!"

"You mean there's more than one of us around at once?" Trip asked, incredulous.

"Uh-huh," Chuck nodded. "'Cause you're all figments—what different writers imagine about you guys based on what you're like on the television program. For example," he pointed at the two of them, standing next to each other in their towels, arms crossed over broad, well-muscled chests. "For a lot of these writers, you guys are together. Though sometimes one of you is with the captain. Or Mayweather." He grinned, "-Or both of 'em, depending on the story."

"We're together?" Trip asked. He glanced at Malcolm and was suddenly filled with such an intense mixture of love and desire that it could only have been planted to prove the point. "Whoa," he said, trying discreetly to cover his groin, "I see what ya mean."

"Me too," croaked Malcolm. He seemed to be having similar trouble with his towel.

"Elle dois aller au lit," Chaz said.

"She's gotta go to bed," Chuck translated. "So you guys'll have to go back to In Between now." He smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry—it won't be for too long, and you won't even notice. Promise!"

"What?" Trip asked, looking around him as if expecting a giant fist to come out of the sky and snatch him, "what do you mean? Already?" But he was gone before Chuck could answer.

"Can I at least have my uniform back?" Malcolm asked, then he was gone too.

Chuck shrugged, turning to his brother. "You done with that cigarette yet?"

Chaz took a final drag, stubbed the three-quarters of the cigarette that remained out on one of the metal bars behind him, then tucked it behind his ear. "Tu ne vas jamais comprendre le plaisir de fumer."

"Damn right I'm never going to understand the pleasure of smoking," Chuck answered, watching with neither fear nor interest as the white nothingness crept in towards them, "I'm four fucking years old. Go pollute your own lungs. Damn frog." But he was gone before Chaz could respond to him.

And then there was only the endless, white expanse of nothing again. The writer yawned and finally turned off the computer, smiling as she thought fondly of the next time she would pull her favorite characters out of the In Between...


End file.
